


Celebrate

by illwick



Series: Unwind [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Cuckolding, Dirty Talk, Dom!John, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overstimulation, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Sexual Fantasy, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M, Violent Sex, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-06 03:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Certain milestones deserve a bit of a celebration.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not much smut in this initial chapter, but please do heed the tags-- if the idea of Sherlock getting it on with anyone but (a fully-consenting) John squicks you out, this installment may not be for you. Additional tags to be added as chapters progress, but I didn't want to ruin TOO many surprises;)

The first indication John gets that his civil partnership with Sherlock is not as secret as they’d discussed comes a little more than a month after they’d signed the papers.

Mycroft knew already. Of course he did - that much they’d anticipated. Not 24 hours after they’d put ink on the dotted line, an unmarked package containing a bottle of vintage Saint-Emilion had shown up on their doorstep. They’d expected nothing less, so that wasn’t exactly a surprise.

What _was_ a surprise, however, is the text John gets from Greg three and a half weeks later.

GL  
<14:27> You smarmy bastard.  
<14:27> Allsop Arms tonight? Drinks on me *beer clink emoji*heart emoji*eye roll emoji*beer clink emoji* 

John blinked down at his phone, utterly perplexed. Why on earth was Greg calling him a smarmy bastard? And what did their standard round of pints and gossip have to do with a _heart emoji?_

But he was midway through a hellishly hectic day at the surgery, Sherlock wasn’t on a case so he was available to pick up Rosie from daycare, and nothing sounded more refreshing than a few pints of lager and a hearty dose of bellyaching about the mundane injustices of daily life with a mate. So he hadn’t thought much of it.

Until that evening, when Greg clapped him on the back, pulled him in for a gruff hug, then promptly ordered a round of shots for them both with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes and an exasperated, “You’re a right arsehole for not telling me, you know.”

John blinked at him uncomprehendingly. “Telling you what?”

“_‘Telling me what?’ _That you made an honest man out of _Sherlock bloody Holmes,_ you twat.”

John was mildly affronted. He and Sherlock hadn’t told anyone, even their families. After all, it wasn’t a big deal, they’d agreed. _(“Two people who already live together are going to city hall, signing some documents, going to work, then carrying on with their lives. We don’t exactly need to take out a full-page ad in the paper, John.”)_

“How did you… he _told_ you?”

“Well, not me directly, He told Donovan.”

“He told _Donovan?”_ John was more confused than ever. Out of the (admittedly short) list of people whose business their legal status _might_ even _conceivably_ be considered, Donavan was not one.

Greg shrugged cheekily and gestured towards the shots on the bartop. John took his in hand, raised it in time with Greg’s, and downed it with a gulp and a shake of his head.

“I suppose _told_ is a rather polite term for it. He’d stopped by to do a quick consult on a forensics report that just came through, and one thing led to another-- you know how the two of them get.” John was forced to nod reluctantly. “Anyway, she said something about him being completely intolerable, and he snapped back at her that at least he had a _partner,_ unlike her, and she said _business partners don’t count,_ and he said _business partner my arse,_ and she said you’d leave him any day now--” John stifled an indignant sound in his throat (Christ, he tried to give Donovan the benefit of the doubt, but she could be a _real_ piece of work sometimes), “and he said _not if our civil partnership papers have anything to say about it, _and that shut Donovan right up but left _me_ feeling a bit _uninformed_ and _unappreciated,_ if you get my drift, seeing as how I _thought _we were friends and all…”

John buried his face in his hands. “Christ, Greg, sorry about that. Honestly, it’s not like you were the last to know-- we haven’t told _anyone_, really, not even our families.”

Greg quirked an eyebrow at him and signaled the barkeep for two pints. “Why not?”

John shrugged. “It’s not that important to us, I guess. We’ve been together for so long, it was just a legal formality. More for Rosie’s sake than anything else. It’s not like we had a ceremony or any of that faff. We just signed some papers and then went to work, like any other Tuesday.”

Greg let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, in that case, I suppose you’re forgiven. But either way, John, you should know… I’m… well, I’m chuffed for you both. I’m glad… I’m glad it all… um, worked out. I’m glad it all worked out.” Greg had turned bright red during his little monologue, and was avoiding John’s gaze entirely, pretending to be utterly transfixed with the coaster resting on the bar.

John felt a brief pang of sympathy for Greg. He knew how horrible Greg felt about his role in the events preceding Sherlock’s Fall. He realises for Greg, this must be a small absolution of some kind.

John grinned at him. “Cheers, mate.” They’d toasted again, then turned the conversation to rugby.

And John figured that was that.

But not even a fortnight later, John was picking Rosie up from Molly’s and she was bidding them adieu with a kiss on the cheek when she’d given John a wink and told him to say _hello_ to his _husband_ for her.

“My husband?”

She’d given him a look of feigned nonchalance. “Tall chap? Dark hair, long coat, bad attitude and the language to match?”

John blinked back at her uncomprehendingly. “He… okay, but how did you… know about the… about the partnership… thing?”

She’d given him a coy wink. “Yesterday we were gossiping a bit to pass the time during a particularly gruesome autopsy, and I may have inquired as to whether the two of you would ever tie the knot. He regrettably informed me that seemed unnecessary, considering that the two of you were already ‘legally bound’.”

John was a bit taken aback. “Oh.” That response was rather more _civilised_ than he’d expect Sherlock to be towards someone meddling in their personal lives-- though the fact that Sherlock engaged in any sort of _gossip_ at all with Molly was surprising enough, and he vaguely noted his assumptions about Sherlock’s penchant for oversharing may need to be reexamined. “Yeah, well, we… I mean, we’re civilly partnered, not married. So he’s not actually my husband.”

Molly let out a withering sigh. “Quit crushing my romantic indulgences! Telling you to say hello to your _legal partner_ for me doesn’t exactly have the same ring, now, does it?”

John shook his head. “How about we just stick to _‘Sherlock’?”_

“Fine. Spoilsport.”

And John figured that was that.

But the last straw comes a mere five days later, when Mrs. Hudson stops speaking to them.

At first John had assumed that she and Sherlock had just gotten into one of their snits. Sometimes when Sherlock was particularly rude to her, she’d give them both the silent treatment for a few hours to _teach him a lesson. _ (“Odd she thinks it’s a punishment, isn’t it? I’m so much more _productive_ without that incessant blathering nitwit--” “Sherlock, that _‘incessant blathering nitwit’_ is literally the reason we have a place to live, a functional business space, and reliable childcare so that we can both keep our damn jobs. So now get your sulky arse downstairs and _apologise this instant.”)_ So when Mrs. H stalks past John on the staircase without so much as a nod of the head, he concludes that she and Sherlock must just be in the midst of another rough patch, and assures himself that she’d be back upstairs that evening with her customary tea and biscuits and a sweet for Rosie.

Except that she never arrives. Nor does she stop by the next day, or the next day, or the day after that. John begins to wonder if perhaps she’d left town to visit her sister and forgotten to tell them (uncharacteristic but not impossible), but he sees her kitchen light on in the evenings and notes it’s off at night, so she _must _still be around…

Finally, he breaks down and asks Sherlock.

“Did you and Mrs. H have another domestic?”

Sherlock peered up at him from over the top of the dense tome of _Common Herbal Remedies Of The Middle East_ he’d been slogging his way through and raises his eyebrows. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, she hasn’t popped by in three days, and the last time I saw her, she gave me the silent treatment.”

“And yet you seem disappointed.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not _disappointed,_ Sherlock, I’m _concerned._ She’s our _friend. _ If you’ve offended her, I’d like to at least be informed.”

“So you can take her side?”

“So I can _smooth things over_ before a case comes up and we’re up a creek without anyone to watch Rosie. Not to mention the fact that she is _actually our friend,_ and as such, we ought to care about her emotional wellbeing.”

He barely catches the catty _‘ought’_ uttered under Sherlock’s breath, and does his best to restrain the urge to throttle the man in cold blood.

“Sherlock, please. What happened.”

“Nothing _happened,_ John. At least, not with me. I daresay she’s more upset with _you.”_

_“Me?! _ Why? What have I done?”

“Well, you’re usually the one in charge of informing her about the trivial banalities of our everyday life, but you seem to have neglected to inform her of our quondam nuptials.”

“Our-- you _told her?”_ John is utterly flabbergasted.

Sherlock gives him a look of oblivious innocence. “What? It just… came up in conversation.”

John narrows his eyes. “And how exactly did it _come up_ in conversation?”

“As always, she was bemoaning that Mrs. Turner was bragging on about her _married_ ones-- as if she’s insinuating we’re living in sin over here, I don’t understand it, but anyway-- I told her that she should tell Mrs. Turner that our household is simply much more _modern_ in our approach, as we opted for civil partnership instead.”

John opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again. He closes it and reminds himself to breathe.

Finally, he’s able to form a coherent thought. “Sherlock, I thought we agreed we weren’t making a big deal out of this.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “I’m not. How is mentioning it in a relevant conversation making a big deal out of it?”

John purses his lips and wills himself to be patient. “Because… because, Sherlock, to _us_ the whole affair may not have meant much, but other people put… a lot of _weight_ on that sort of thing. And while we agreed that neither of us wanted to make a big to-do, other people might be offended that they were… well, that they were excluded from sharing in the joy of it with us.”

Sherlock scrunches up his nose in disgust. “Share in our _joy?_ Joy of _what, _exactly, filling out paperwork?”

“No, of publicly declaring our intention to spend the rest of our lives together, you dolt.”

“Is _that_ what we were doing? Thought we were just sorting out our finances and our next-of-kin succession.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I’m not going to get into an argument of semantics over the sentimental entanglements of legal contracts with you, because I know that’s a losing proposition. But what I need you to understand is that Mrs. Hudson is _hurt _that she wasn’t included in our decision to become civilly committed.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “But… why? It’s nothing to do with her.” He looks sincerely perplexed.

John counts backwards from ten and mentally reviews some of the mechanisms he’s worked on with his therapist to help Sherlock navigate the murkier waters of _sentiment_ and _emotion_ at times like these.

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, more patient. “Love, it isn’t something that I can explain easily. A lot of it’s to do with _empathy,_ that one person’s joy can bring joy to another.” That’s a concept Sherlock still struggles with, and John knows he’s aware of it. He can see Sherlock begin to frown slightly. “It’s not that Mrs. Hudson thinks that our legal status is any of her business. It’s that our decision to become legally partnered is indicative of a larger commitment to one another. That’s a commitment you and I have known about for a long time, but for other people, they see it as a declaration of that commitment to the world. And if they’re excluded from that, they feel like they’ve… like they’ve missed out on the opportunity to share in that joy with us.”

Sherlock seems to mull this over. “Alright. I don’t… I don’t get it, but I’ll trust you on this one. So… what do we do?”

A little spark of warmth kindles itself in John’s chest. It means a lot to him that Sherlock wants to _fix_ this, even though he’ll never understand what exactly is broken. It’s a testament to how far he’s learned to compromise in terms of his tolerance of _sentiment._

“Well… considering that Greg knows, and Molly knows, and Mrs. H knows, I think we ought to maybe tell our other friends and family about it.”

Sherlock stares at him like he’s lost his mind. “Why? If they don’t know already, what does it matter?”

John grits his teeth and does his best not to sigh in exasperation. “Because if they find out, and then they find out that _other_ people knew before them, they’ll feel even worse.”

Sherlock slaps his book shut with a theatrical roll of his eyes. “That’s it. I’m officially out of my depth here, John, you’re making absolutely no sense.” He rises from his chair and makes his way to the door, grabbing his Belstaff on his way out. “How about you just tell me what needs to be done and I’ll do it, no questions asked.” And with that, he glides out the door and down the stairs without so much as a backwards glance.

John buries his face in his hands with a muffled groan. 

Damn it. He was going to have to fix this himself.

********

“Mrs. H, please. I-- we-- really need your help. We’re desperate.” John’s pleas are met with silence from the other side of the door to 221A.

“Look, I know you’re upset, but we really want the event to be _perfect,_ and it can’t be perfect without Sherlock’s favourite cake. It’s… it’s imperative. He’s so reluctant to do this anyway, your cake was the _only_ way I could get him to agree. No cake, no Sherlock. And then think about how disappointed our friends and families will be that they won’t get to celebrate with us. It’s--”

The door flies open. “Then perhaps you ought to have thought of that before you neglected to invite me to the ceremony.”

John is so startled that he loses his train of thought for a split second, but he forces himself to _focus._ The door is open-- he’s well on his way to winning her back.

“It wasn’t a _ceremony,_ Mrs. H. If there had been, God knows you’d’ve had a seat in the front row. Hell, we would have asked you to _officiate._ But it was just signing some papers and returning them to the registrar. No vows, no rings. It was boring, really.”

Mrs. Hudson gives an indignant sniff. “Well perhaps it was boring to _you_ dear, but for a woman my age, I’ve so little to look forward to. A nice trip to the registrar’s would have broken up the monotony for me a bit, seeing as how I live here, _alone,_ all by myself…”

John steels himself for just a _bit_ more sucking up. “Mrs. H, you’re not alone, we see you every day and you know we’re right upstairs whenever you need us. We consider you family. That’s why we want you to make the cake for the party! Please. It’ll mean so much to the both of us.”

She purses her lips, but John can see the twinkle in her eye that means he’s wearing her down. Internally, he pumps his fist in victory-- she can never deny _her boys_ for too long. 

“Well, I suppose. If it means that much to you. Now, how many guests did you say you’ll be having?”

“Sixteen total.”

Mrs. H issues a withering sigh. “That’s quite a lot, dear. But I _suppose_ I can throw something together.”

John grabs her by the shoulders and presses a warm kiss to her cheek. “Mrs. Hudson, you’re a saint.”

She waves him off with a shake of her head, but she can’t hide the delighted blush spreading across her cheeks. “Oh, nonsense. Now, I’d best go make sure I have enough cake tins…”

“We just need a simple sponge, you don’t need to--”

“But it’s your _wedding cake,_ dear! Now’s not the time to be discreet.”

_It’s not a bloody wedding!_ He has to literally bite his tongue to keep the words from coming out of his mouth. _Just indulge her,_ he reminds himself. He plasters a smile onto his face. “Of course, Mrs. H. Whatever you think is best.”

He trudges back upstairs, his sense of victory somewhat muted by the inevitability of an obscenely ostentatious baked good, to find Sherlock playing his violin in the sitting room, the tune spritely and invigorating. “How did it go?”

“Successful, I suppose. She’s at least speaking to me again. Though I think she’s ignored the request for a Victoria Sponge entirely. We’re going to end up with some triple-tier monstrosity, I can feel it.” He sighs in resignation.

Sherlock somehow manages to shrug without missing a beat. “No one ever complained of having too much cake at a party.”

“I suppose not.” John folds himself into his chair and picks up his laptop. “Alright, so-- evites: Sent. I’ll just grab some finger sandwiches at the Waitrose the morning of, along with some champagne. Cake is done. Decorations?”

Sherlock shoots him a scandalized look. _“Decorations?_ No. I’m drawing the line there.”

John scrunches up his nose. “But maybe--”

Before he can finish his thought, Sherlock puts down his violin, grabs the certificate confirming their civil partnership off the stack of papers on the desk, picks up his knife from the mantle, and stabs it into the wall beside the mirror. “There. I’ve decorated.”

John really can’t be blamed for dragging him down the hallway and shagging his brains out for the remainder of the afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a friendly reminder for anyone who's forgotten (AS IF YOU COULD), Aaron is loosely based on Tobias Santelmann's character in Borderliner. In case you need a visual reference;)

“He wants you to have a _stag night?”_ John stares at Sherlock incredulously across the desk over the mountain of photographic evidence they’re reviewing for a new case. Sherlock had just casually mentioned that Aaron wanted to take him out for a _stag night, _and John does his best to tamp down the fiery flare of jealousy that ignites in his stomach. 

Sherlock shrugs. “He just wants to go out for dinner. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like.”

“Uh, no thanks.” The last time John had gone out with them for Aaron’s birthday, they’d all ended up at a gay club, and John had felt like a fish out of water. While he hadn’t been _disappointed_ by the progression of the evening (Aaron had gotten handsy with Sherlock with John’s permission, and John had taken Sherlock home and punished him thoroughly), the atmosphere of the club had been… too much. Too loud, too oppressive, too _public._ John had felt awkward and exposed all at once.

“Anyway, I explained to him that you and I weren’t even married, it was just a legal thing and it was already done, so a stag night was wholly uncalled for. But he’s insisting. Since we’re having the party and all. He says it counts, and he and I should celebrate.”

John mulls it over. “Do you… um, do you _want_ to… um, _celebrate_ with Aaron?” 

Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet his. John’s distinctly aware that they both know he doesn’t just mean _celebrate._

“I… I wouldn’t mind.”

John swallows hard, a thousand salacious fantasies suddenly pressing to the forefront of his consciousness. “What… um, what would you like to do with Aaron? To celebrate?”

Sherlock licks his lips. “You… want me to tell you about it?”

John nods.

Sherlock takes an unsteady breath, the colour rising resolutely across his cheekbones. “I want to… dance with him. Let him put his hands on me.”

John’s voice is low when he responds. “Where on you?”

“My chest. My back. My hips. My-- my arse.”

“Yeah? Do you want him to kiss you?”

Sherlock gives a shaky nod. “I want him to… kiss my neck. My face.”

“Your lips?” That’s a step further than they’d taken it last time.

“Yes.” The word is barely a whisper.

“And is that all?” There’s a hint of a growl in the back of his throat, and he can see Sherlock shudder in response.

“I… I want him to press his body against me. To… to grind against me.”

John raises his eyebrows. “You want him to put his cock on you?”

“Oh God…” Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and his breaths are coming in quick gasps. “Yes.”

“You want to rub your cock on him? Get hard against him?”

“Fuck, yes, I want-- Christ, John, I want--”

John can’t resist anymore. He slides to his knees and crawls under the desk and opens up Sherlock’s trousers and sucks him until he comes down his throat with a helpless wail.

**********

John tries the negotiation again the next evening, once they both have their wits about them. He makes them tea and lights a fire and they sit in their respective chairs and prepare to talk it out like adults.

“So.” John takes a measured sip of tea and looks Sherlock in the eye. He looks beautiful in firelight. John’s always admired the way that flames accentuate the angles of his face.

“So.” Sherlock shifts slightly in his chair. John can tell he’s already a bit aroused; the thought makes him smirk.

“Rules for _celebrating_ with Aaron. Should we start from the beginning?”__

_ _Sherlock narrows his eyes appraisingly. “That would probably be good. What, exactly, would you_ like_ Aaron and I to get up to?”_ _

_ _John licks his lips. “I just want to know you’re out there misbehaving. And that you’ll need to be punished when you come home.”_ _

_ _Sherlock nods, and John can see how dilated his pupils are, even in the dim light. It makes him feel _hungry.__ _

_ _John takes another drink of tea to centre himself. “So… why don’t you tell me what _your_ ideal night out with Aaron would look like? Just so we… just so we can be sure we’re on the same page.”_ _

_ _Sherlock places his cup gently on the end table and steeples his fingers under his chin, locking eyes with John once more. Despite himself, John shivers-- at moments like this, he almost feels as if Sherlock can see straight through him._ _

_ _“It starts out innocently enough. He takes me out onto the dance floor, puts his arms around me, makes me feel good, makes me laugh. But then his hands move lower and start… start pulling me towards him. Until… until our bodies are touching.”_ _

_ _“Go on.”_ _

_ _“And I can… I can feel him getting hard. I’m getting hard too, and his hands are on my arse, moving me against him, and then he kisses me. And… and we keep kissing and moving like that until we’re just… grinding our cocks together, and it’s so obscene but it feels _so good…”__ _

_ _“Mmmhmm.” John lowers his cup onto the table and rises to his feet, prowling slowly towards Sherlock, who begins to tremble in the flickering light._ _

_ _“And then he starts… he starts to mark me up, bite my neck, and I _know_ you’re going to see it, you’re going to be so jealous, but I can’t bring myself to make him stop.”_ _

_ _“And then what?” John moves to straddle Sherlock’s lap and lowers himself so their erect cocks brush together in an intoxicating slide of fabric._ _

_ _“And then-- _nnngh--”_ (John reaches down to unfasten Sherlock’s trousers and pull out his throbbing length, then does the same with his own and begins to stroke them both in tandem as he moves his pelvis in slow, rhythmic undulations) “--and then he takes me by the hand and pulls me into the back alley.”_ _

_ _“Mmm, _yes…” _ John pauses to lick his hand before returning it to their shafts, which are twitching against one another in anticipation, tips dampening with precome._ _

_ _“Then he-- oh, _fuck--_ then he pushes me back against the wall and kisses me some more, and I’m so distracted I don’t even notice where his hands are until he’s pushing his fingers inside of me--”_ _

_ _“Fuck, _yes, Sherlock--”__ _

_ _“And he doesn’t wait, he’s too impatient, he picks me up and sits me down on his prick and starts fucking me right there against the wall, so hard I can feel it in my teeth, and I’m helpless, I can’t move, I just have to take it, and I’m saying his name but I’m saying yours, too, because I want you to see me, to see me like that, to see what he’s doing to me, to know you’ll have to fix it, have to-- have to make me take you harder, deeper, longer--”_ _

_ _“Yeah… _yeah…”__ _

_ _“And I can-- fuck, fuck!-- I can feel him getting harder inside of me, and I know he’s going to come in me--”_ _

_ _“Christ, yes--”_ _

_ _“And I’m screaming because I’m yours, but I can’t make it stop, I want it so badly, but I know once he’s done, you’ll make me take you a dozen times, _more_ than a dozen, you’ll fuck the memory of him right out of me, come inside me so many times I’ll forget his name, forget anyone in this world but you, and I’m screaming _your_ name as he comes in my arse, because you’re the only-- the only-- FUCK!”_ _

_ _Sherlock’s back arches and his eyes scrunch shut and then he’s shooting streaks of come up the front of his shirt as John jerks him through it, shaking and moaning. The sight of Sherlock going to pieces beneath him is all too much, and seconds later John follows him over the edge, emptying his load across Sherlock’s torso with a deep, satisfied grunt._ _

_ _The silence afterwards is deafening._ _

_ _Finally, John manages to sit himself upright-- he’d collapsed onto Sherlock and buried his head in his neck during the haze of post-coital bliss, and now he feels a bit clammy as a result. _ _

_ _“Jesus.”_ _

_ _Sherlock’s head is still dropped back against his chair, his eyes shut, his brow dampened with sweat. “Fucking hell, John.”_ _

_ _John clambers unsteadily to his feet and tucks himself back into his trousers, wincing slightly-- he’s a bit chafed from jerking them both dry, but looking down at Sherlock’s debauched form, he can’t bring himself to regret it._ _

_ _“Need a hand? You might want to… um, rinse off a bit.”_ _

_ _Sherlock reluctantly blinks his eyes open, then casts his gaze to the front of his suit before cursing under his breath. “I _just_ had this dry cleaned!”_ _

_ _John snorts. “You sound like me. C’mon.” Sherlock clasps his extended hand and lets John guide him down the hall to the bathroom to sort himself out._ _

_ _“Well, that was… an interesting turn of events,” John muses as he reaches for his toothbrush. Behind him, Sherlock’s stripped down to his pants and is dabbing at some errant spots of come with a wet flannel._ _

_ _“How so?” Sherlock seems rather distracted by the state of his suit._ _

_ _“I’m… um, I’m assuming that was not a_ literal_ narrative of how you’d like your evening with Aaron to go.”_ _

_ _“Of course not. I was using hyperbole as a tool to increase our mutual arousal.”_ _

_ _“Yeah, I figured that. I’m just… Looking forward to seeing where this takes us, is all. On a night when we don’t get so… distracted.”_ _

_ _Sherlock cocks an eyebrow at him. “I think you mean _you’ve_ distracted us. I was being entirely professional, up until the part where you started sucking me off under the desk or climbing into my lap and doing lovely things to my cock.”_ _

_ _“Should I be begging your forgiveness?”_ _

_ _Sherlock pauses as if to consider it. “No. I suppose it was fine. It was all fine.”_ _

_ _John grins. “Alright.”_ _

_ _Sherlock grins back._ _


	3. Chapter 3

The morning of the Stag Night, John makes love to Sherlock. It feels important, somehow, to affirm the special connection they share before embarking on… well, whatever the hell it was they’d be embarking on. He knows Sherlock feels it, too, as he gazes up at John from beneath fluttering lashes, their fingers entwined and breath intermingling. It’s soft and sweet and slow and sensual, and John loses himself completely in the unique perfection of it. Somehow, no matter how many times he’s had Sherlock like this, it’s _magic_ every time, _every damn time,_ and somewhere in the midst of the heat and the pressure and the shattering, earth-shaking intimacy it strikes him that he _gets to be with Sherlock like this, _and it’s just on the brink of _too much, too soft, too pure,_ but it’s so good, it’s _so good…_

Sherlock comes first. With an arch and a cry he spills over John’s fist as John tenderly works him through it, murmuring words of love and affirmation as Sherlock quivers and shakes apart. And then his body goes boneless and lax, and he grins up at John with that goofy, punch-drunk look on his face that makes John feel light and giddy and embarrassingly sappy, and John is _gone._

It doesn’t take him long from there. He keeps his thrusts firm and deep, Sherlock’s body is so _hot_ and _tight_ around him, and then Sherlock gives him a mischievous look and tips his pelvis and _clenches_ himself around John’s member, and two quick strokes later John’s emptying himself with a hoarse cry of surprise as Sherlock half-laughs, half-sighs as he reaches up to pull John’s gasping mouth against his in a soul-searing kiss.

They kiss for a long time afterwards, carrying on past the point where their bodies can remain joined. They simply lie in a tangle of sheets and limbs, lips moving in a wordless dance, fingers clasping in a helpless embrace.

At long last, John has to pull away. He needs to go to _work_ today (how the hell he was going to be able to focus, he has no idea), and Rosie will undoubtedly wake up soon. Sherlock whimpers at the loss of contact.

John sits up and cups Sherlock’s face gently in his hand. “You alright? You still… um, are you still looking forward to tonight?”

Sherlock nods, his cheeks still flushed and eyes glassy, his hair a tangled halo where it’s splayed across the pillow. “Yes. A little anxious, but that’s normal, right?” He stretches out his impossibly long limbs with a contented sigh, and John admires the way his muscles roll and flex beneath his delicate porcelain skin.

John gives a lighthearted shrug. “I suppose so. But you do know-- you know I won’t be disappointed if you decide not to do this, right? Because what we already have, Sherlock, it’s bloody _perfect,_ I don’t want you to think--”

Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Please, John. When was the last time I did something I didn’t want to do simply because I thought it would please someone else?”

“You did the dishes Wednesday night without my even asking.”

Sherlock huffs in exasperation. “Well, I’m taking a real leap of faith that this will be more satisfying than engaging in unprompted domestic labour.”

John chuckles at that and leans in to press a kiss against his forehead. “If we set the bar there, love, I have a feeling neither of us will be disappointed.” With that, he wraps himself in his dressing gown and heads upstairs to start their day.

John’s not quite sure how he survives eight agonizing hours at the surgery, but he somehow muddles through (thanking his lucky stars that he doesn’t have to deal with anything more complex than a sprained index finger and a mild sinus infection). He heads straight home afterwards; Molly had offered to take Rosie for the night, so he arrives back at the flat earlier than usual and finds Sherlock in the final stages of preparing for his evening with Aaron.

He looks gorgeous. He always does, but tonight he’s opted for his black suit and a black shirt with the top two buttons undone, exposing the delicate column of his throat. His hair has been coaxed into the effortless-looking curls that John now knows from experience are _anything _but effortless to attain, and he smells intoxicatingly of bergamot and pine and something dark and smoky that makes John’s cock twitch with interest. It takes all of his willpower to not simply drag Sherlock into the bedroom and take him apart before they’ve even begun.

But John reminds himself to _behave._ He leaves Sherlock to his own devices and forces himself to retreat to the sitting room, where he pretends to be engrossed in his laptop (while in actuality he’s agonizingly aware of the sound of Sherlock’s bare feet padding back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom as he completes his routine). After a seeming eternity, he hears the soles of Sherlock’s dress shoes against the hardwood floor as he makes his way down the hall and through the kitchen to stand in front of John.

John looks up from his laptop and raises his eyebrows. Sherlock stares back at him expectantly. There’s a heavy silence.

“Well?” Sherlock holds his arms open in a gesture of exasperated supplication.

John furrows his brow. “Well, what?”

“Am I… is this… good? Is it… what you want?”

Ah. So he’s already waiting for John to begin dominating him. _Interesting._

John rises to his feet and sets his laptop aside as nonchalantly as possible, then walks in a slow, deliberate circle around Sherlock’s stock-still form. He cocks his head to the side, pretending to be evaluating Sherlock’s appearance before he can deem him presentable.

Finally, he reaches forward to brush a piece of lint off of Sherlock’s lapel, and gives him a curt not. “Yes, sweetheart. That’ll do.”

Sherlock relaxes instantaneously, and his face breaks into a coy smile. “Good.”

John licks his lips. “Are you headed out?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright. You remember our rules?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Have fun, love. I can’t wait for you to get home.” With that, he presses a chaste peck onto Sherlock’s cheek, then pivots on his heel and makes his way into the kitchen to pull open the fridge and rummage about for some dinner. 

It’s not that he _wants_ to be aloof in this moment, but he knows he has to appear completely disengaged in order to maintain the upper hand. Moments later, the front door opens and then swings shut, and John is left alone in silence.

John does his best to maintain the facade, even without Sherlock around to witness it. He makes himself some soup and a salad. He turns on the telly. He opens a beer.

But it’s all _pointless._ Try as he might, he can’t stop thinking about what Sherlock might be doing at this very moment.

He imagines Aaron’s hands on Sherlock’s body, in his hair, pulling him close and guiding their lips together as Sherlock moves sensuously to a heady beat that thunders across the dark dance floor. He imagines Aaron putting his cock against Sherlock and Sherlock responding, reluctantly at first, then slowly losing control as his body takes over, dragging him along for the ride.

Something hot and blinding flashes through John at the thought of it. _Fury._ It’s white-hot fury at the thought of another man touching Sherlock, pleasuring Sherlock, coaxing Sherlock to let down his carefully-constructed facade and do just what his transport wants.

But hand-in-hand with that white-hot fury is blood-red_ lust, _heady and potent and all-consuming. John’s furious but so goddamn aroused he feels nearly blinded by it, letting his head fall back in his chair and squeezing his eyes shut as he palms himself furiously through his trousers, his turgid erection pulsing hotly as he imagines Sherlock coming apart in the hands of another man.

Fuck, _fuck, why is he like this? _ Why is anger and possessiveness all twisted together with his voyeurism and sadism and dominant tendencies? Why does he so badly want Sherlock to disobey him, just so he can break Sherlock all over again and make him do nothing _but_ obey? Why does he want to rip him apart just so he can force him back together into a pure, submissive form? Fuck, _why does he want this so much?_

_It doesn’t matter why you want what you want. If you and your partner share a consensual kink, you don’t need to psychoanalyse your way out of exploring it. It’s alright to just let it be, and rejoice in the fact you’ve found a partner who wants the same things you do._

John had read that passage one night on the BDSM message boards he frequents and found it so poignant, he’d actually copied it verbatim onto a sheet of paper and stuck it in his nightstand drawer. Sometimes after a particularly rough session, or when Sherlock cried a lot during aftercare, or when John was feeling particularly insecure about subjecting Sherlock to some of his more extreme desires, he’d pull out the piece of paper and re-read those words. _It was fine. It was all fine._ As long as they kept everything _safe, sane, and consensual, _the source of their desires didn’t matter; if it wasn’t creating a problem in their relationship, they should be free to explore it.

He reminds himself that this anger, this fury, it isn’t _real: _He’s not actually angry at Sherlock and plotting to punish him out of vindictiveness. It’s a _manufactured _anger, intentional and carefully constructed in the company of a trusted companion. It’s a _safe_ anger, a _controlled_ anger, a _consensual, desired_ anger. It’s a Pavlovian response to a deliberate stimuli, planned and executed within set boundaries. This was fine. _This was all fine._

He whimpers as he jerks himself harder, allowing himself to imagine Sherlock being dragged into some dark corner and manhandled to face the wall. He imagines Aaron’s broad hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, forcing him to bend at the waist, expose himself. He imagines Aaron yanking down Sherlock’s trousers and pants and forcing himself inside while Sherlock keens and wails. He imagines Sherlock being fucked savagely as his fingers claw helplessly for purchase. He imagines Aaron pulling Sherlock’s hair as he comes inside him.

John actually shouts out loud as he grips the base of his own cock too tightly for comfort, staving off orgasm at the last possible moment. When he manages to blink his eyes open he finds he’s breathing hard, gasps short and unsteady, and his forehead is damp and cool with sweat.

He checks his watch. It’s 23:14 already. It was time to get prepared.

He takes a cold shower and changes into a pair of dark denims and a worn grey t-shirt. He pulls the duvet off the bed and folds it in the corner. Then leaving his feet bare, he gathers a few select items to place strategically in the sitting room. He’s just completed his final task when his mobile pings.

_SH_  
<23:54> In the taxi. 3 minutes away.

John smiles to himself, and makes his way downstairs to wait.

************

John opens the door to a vision.

Sherlock is breathless, the colour on his cheeks high and mottled, pupils so blown his eyes are nearly black. His lips are parted, hair windswept, and he’s staring at John with a level of intensity that makes John want to take him right there on their front stoop.

Tempting, but no. John eyes him up and down appraisingly, and he can see Sherlock shudder under is stern glare.

John raises his eyebrow. “Have fun, then?”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes, John.”

John takes a step forward. Sherlock stiffens. “Did you let him touch you?”

“Yes.”

“Feel you?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you?”

“John, _please--”_

The next instant, John’s yanked him by his lapels through the doorframe and spun him around, slamming him brutally against the wall, arm twisted behind his back. Sherlock whimpers and struggles, and John’s cock throbs valiantly against his trousers as he traps Sherlock in place.

He leans forward to whisper directly in Sherlock’s ear, low and dark. “Now, you listen to me. You have five minutes to get upstairs and get yourself prepped. I want you naked in our sitting room and ready to take me by the time I walk through that door. If you’re not, I swear to God, there will be _hell_ to pay. Is that understood?”

Sherlock lets out a low whine in the back of his throat as he struggles against John’s grasp. John twists his arm further and pins him harder against the wall, noting the way Sherlock’s breathing quickens with his increasing arousal. A hot pulse of adrenaline rockets through his veins in response. 

When he speaks again, his voice is reduced to a hiss. “Sweetheart, I asked you a question. _ Is that understood?”_

Sherlock takes a shaky breath and manages to gasp out a stifled, “Yes.”

It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do; John’s eager to get on with the proceedings but he’s not too keen on getting into a physical altercation with Sherlock in the stairwell (while he’s fairly confident that Mrs. Hudson is well aware that he and Sherlock get up to some rather _unorthodox_ endeavours in the bedroom, he’d hate to see what her reaction would be if she caught him physically manhandling Sherlock into submission-- something like that could all too easily be misunderstood by an impartial third party).

John releases Sherlock carelessly and takes three generous steps backward, watching in polite satisfaction as Sherlock slumps against the wall, breathing hard, attempting to get his bearings.

“Go. Four minutes forty-six seconds. Don’t fucking disappoint me.”

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time and disappears into the flat. John lowers himself into the chair beside the staircase to wait.

He chuckles to himself when he recalls the first time he noticed this particular chair, perched unassumingly in the corner of the entry of the building. _Why the hell, _he’d wondered to himself, _would anyone put a single chair in the stairwell of a multiflat residence? What sort of weirdo would sit, alone in a hallway, in a corner without so much as a lamp? Why do people insist on installing inane, useless clutter in their living spaces in the name of interior design or other such nonsense?_

But here in this moment, he’s rather grateful for the presence of the chair, as it allows him the _perfect_ location to sit and pretend to peruse the news on his phone (whereas in reality he’s watching the seconds tick down on the timer he’d set the moment Sherlock turned his back to go upstairs). He simply sits and breathes and collects himself, mentally reviewing his plans for the evening, reminding himself of the rules they’d need to review, and focusing on the reactions he wants to draw out of Sherlock. By the time the timer goes off in his hands, he feels calm. Focused. Prepared.

Everything feels _perfect._

He takes the stairs slowly and deliberately, allowing Sherlock the courtesy of announcing his presence in case there were any last-minute preparations to be made.

He needn’t have worried. The flat door swings open, and his eyes fall instantly to the image of Sherlock, stark naked on his hands and knees in the centre of the sitting room floor, diligently working three fingers into himself and issuing a series of high, pleading whines. It’s such a wanton display of submission that John’s head feels suddenly light at the sight of it; the mere juxtaposition of _this_ version of Sherlock, compared to the dignified, aloof creature that more frequently stalks these floorboards, is staggering in its intensity.

Sherlock casts a glance over his shoulder as John enters the room. He doesn’t stop pistoning his fingers inside himself, but he rolls his neck and arches his back and issues a pathetic, _“John…”_

And that’s it. The fragile, gossamer thread of tension between them pulls and _snaps,_ and John surges forward to take control.

He drops to his knees behind Sherlock and grabs the wrist of the hand he’s currently using to prep himself, then yanks Sherlock’s fingers out of his hole. Sherlock howls at the loss.

“Down.” Sherlock drops his hand back to the floor. “All the way. Onto your front. Now.” Sherlock dutifully lowers his body to the floor, hissing as his cock comes into contact with the rug. He turns his head to the side and closes his eyes, clearly no longer interested in attempting to predict what John’s about to do to him.

“Show me. Let me see if you’ve done a good job with your prep.”

Sherlock reaches around to grab himself by the buttocks, then pulls them apart to expose his glistening hole. John reaches down to trace his rim with a feather-light touch, and Sherlock shivers with a helpless sigh.

“Very nice. Did you use lube?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and soft. John loves it when he grows docile like this.

John sinks a finger in up to his second knuckle, then makes a light hum of approval. “Mmm, Christ, you’re nice and wet, aren’t you?”

Sherlock just nods and pulls his cheeks further apart, and John grins as he sinks another finger into him.

“You’re messy.” He keeps his tone curt.

Sherlock swallows hard. “Yes, John.”

John licks his lips. “How did you get so messy?”

Sherlock hesitates. Then, in the faintest of whispers, he replies. “Aaron--”

John reacts instantaneously. He reaches forward to tangle his hand in Sherlock’s hair and yanks, _hard,_ lifting his head off the floor. _“Aaron? _ Fucking _Aaron_ did this to you?”

_“John, please--”_

He’s barely able to get the words out before John’s got his own trousers unfastened, pulling his cock out with the free hand not currently holding Sherlock’s head up.

“You seem to have forgotten, sweetheart, only _one man_ gets to leave messes inside you, and that’s me.” Without hesitating, he lines the head of his cock up with Sherlock’s fluttering hole, and drives all the way inside in one swift stroke.

It’s an intense penetration. Sherlock screams and writhes, clearly caught off-guard by the sudden nature of it, and John finds himself gulping deep breaths of air to distract himself from the sensation of Sherlock’s vise-tight channel seizing up around him.

He gets his wits about him as quickly as possible, and leans down to growl in Sherlock’s ear. “Hold yourself open for me. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. This is going to be unpleasant for you either way, so you’d best make sure at least _I’m_ satisfied.” He plants his free hand beside Sherlock’s head and keeps his other wrapped firmly in his hair, and begins to thrust.

It’s a rather inelegant fucking, all things considered. There’s no finesse to it, no steady rhythm, and the angles are all awkward and less than ideal. But this isn’t about the _act,_ the _sex-- _ it’s about the exhange, the _dominance _and the _submission_ carefully entwining to forge a new, _different_ dynamic between them. It’s about establishing their roles for the duration of this session.

Sherlock huffs through gritted teeth as John plunders him, but he does remain dutifully silent. He continues to hold himself open, gripping himself so hard his knuckles go white, offering his body to John for punishment.

“Fuck, _fuck,_ sweetheart, you’re so wet, so good, mmm… God, so _messy…” _ John closes his eyes and allows himself to imagine that the lube inside Sherlock is a mess of an entirely different kind. God, what if Aaron had _come inside him,_ left a mess, and now John was going to have to _reestablish his claim_ on Sherlock’s pristine transport, fill him up so many times that he wouldn’t even remember Aaron’s name by the end of it…

“Oh, love, you’re being so good. Say my name.”

_“John.”_ The word sounds broken and brittle on Sherlock’s trembling lips.

“Again.”

“John!”

“Mmm, ng! Ng! Ng! Yeah! God, _again!”_

“John! AH! John!”

“That’s it, that’s it… Bet Aaron couldn’t fuck you this well, could he, hmmm?”

“No, John--”

“Bet he’d barely put anything inside you. I’m gonna fill you up tonight, sweetheart, make you take so much of my come you’ll be overflowing--”

“JOHN! J-J-J-ohn!”

“Claim you, break you, make you _mine._ You want that? You want me to claim you?”

“Yes, please, John!”

John’s thrusts are growing increasingly erratic, and he knows he can’t hold on much longer.

“Beg me. Now.”

“John, please, come in me, come in me, fuck him out of me, I’m begging you, I’m yours, _yours, only yours-- OH! AH! FUCK! AH!”_

And with three heroic thrusts, John empties himself into Sherlock’s prone form, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s sensitive follicles as he leans forward to sink his teeth into the back of his neck. Sherlock goes perfectly still beneath his command, and John revels in the euphoric sensation of his own body staking its claim over Sherlock’s. By the time he’s finished, Sherlock is issuing a series of soft, wet gasps, not struggling anymore but soft and pliable beneath John’s hands.

Eventually John replaces his teeth with his tongue, gently lapping at the pressure point on Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock makes a little cry and arches a bit, still impaled on John’s slowly softening member, and John hums his approval against the warm skin beneath his lips.

“Very good, sweetheart. You’re being very good for me.”

“Thank you, John.”

John’s startled to hear a waiver in Sherlock’s voice, and when he musters the strength to prop himself up on his forearms, he’s somewhat surprised to see Sherlock is crying.

“You alright, love? Too rough?” He combs the matted curls away from Sherlock’s forehead, is stomach clenching in concern; Sherlock had _felt _open and well-prepped, but was there a chance John had taken them too far too fast?

But Sherlock’s shaking his head, eyes still shut, turning his face towards the rug as if embarrassed. “No. It felt good. This feels so good, John. Don’t stop.”

So they were happy tears, then. Unusual but not entirely unheard of; Sherlock didn’t often cry so early in a session, but John imagines they’re both dealing with some heightened emotions following such a lengthy period of foreplay. So John simply smiles to himself and dips his head to kiss the bite mark on the back of Sherlock’s neck, then slowly withdraws his cock and unsteadily pulls himself to stand, fastening his trousers with a contented sigh.

“Alright, sweetheart. You can stop holding yourself open, now.” He’s honestly a bit disappointed; some particularly pervy part of him_ loves _the idea of making Sherlock continue to expose his now-leaking hole, but the pragmatist in him confirms that Sherlock’s arms would tire soon, and he’d need to keep his energy up if they were both going to last.

Sherlock lets his arms fall gracelessly back to the floor beside his nude, ravaged body. His tears seem to have subsided for now, but his eyes are still closed and his breath is coming in shallow, uneven gasps. He clearly needs a break.

“Good. Stay there.” And with that, John turns on his heel and makes his way to the kitchen to do the dishes.

Of course it’s not easy-- this part never is. But he knows how much it turns Sherlock on to be left exposed and debauched, and he knows how much he himself needs time to get centred and focused again after letting himself off his leash. He doesn’t like to think of himself as brutal or violent by nature, so to allow himself to behave like that during coitus always requires attaining a very specific mindset that he’s worked incredibly hard to hone. It all comes down to_ balance,_ and this is just one more way John keeps their equilibrium.

He finishes the dishes and wipes down the counters and the table. He sweeps the floor (again making a mental note to consider getting a dog - it certainly seemed that more than half of Rosie’s meals ended up on the floor these days, and he’s inclined to believe a furry hoover may actually be worth the energy). He scrubs the kettle and dusts the wine glasses.

His erection never fully subsides. This happens sometimes, on nights when he knows they’ll be at it for a while; his initial orgasm almost feels like an appetizer rather than a main event. He still comes, but he doesn’t feel the usual wave of _relief _that he commonly associates with post-orgasmic bliss. Instead, it’s an added pressure, a new tension, and it’s one he can’t wait to work out.

At long last, he makes his way back into the sitting room.

Just as he’d commanded, Sherlock hasn’t moved. He’s still lying face-down completely nude in the middle of the floor, just the tiniest hint of fluid glistening between his cheeks to indicate their previous activities. The bite mark on his neck is blossoming into a lovely bruise, but it wouldn’t be enough.

No. John needed so much more.

He snaps his fingers. “Up. Come with me.”

The speed at which Sherlock complies is startling. Seconds ago he’d been motionless as a corpse on the ground, but in the blink of an eye he’s standing before John, stark naked and unashamed. John loves how unselfconscious Sherlock is when they’re _unwinding._

John leads the way down the hall to the bedroom and closes the door behind them before rounding on Sherlock, who shudders under his stern gaze.

“So. You had fun with Aaron tonight?”

Sherlock bats his eyes demurely and casts his gaze to the floor. “Yes.”

John slowly moves to stand in front of him, running the tips of his fingers gently up and down the prominent curves of Sherlock’s ribs. He watches as gooseflesh ripples across Sherlock’s skin, his nipples puckering in response. Sherlock issues an unsteady sigh and John breathes deeply in turn, the air between them thick with anticipation and lust.

He continues to glide his fingers across Sherlock’s torso as he speaks, keeping his tone low and conversational. “Yeah? What did you and Aaron do?”

“He took me dancing.”

“He did, hmm?” He brushes his thumbs lightly across the pebbled buds on Sherlock’s chest, and delights in the gasp it elicits from the man in front of him. “Did he touch you while you were dancing?”

Sherlock nods slowly. “First he put his hands… on my hips.”

John trails his pointer fingers down to the sharp protrusion of Sherlock’s pelvic bones and draws soft, lazy circles around the tender fleshed stretched across his angular frame. “Here?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock’s voice has gone low and soft. His eyes are closed, and his head is lolling lazily to one side as he loses himself in John’s gentle touch.

John continues to lightly stroke Sherlock’s hips with his thumbs. “And then?”

“And then he kissed my neck.”

“Mmmm.” John skates the fingertips of his left hand up the length of Sherlock’s torso until they come to rest on Sherlock’s clavicle, where he begins to trace soft patterns along its length. “Here?”

“Y-y-yes. And… and here…” He tips his head further to the side to expose even more of his neck, and John strokes his fingers along the paper-thin flesh, feeling the thrum of Sherlock’s pulse steady beneath his thumb. It feels deliciously vulnerable, and John’s cock gives a demanding throb.

“And then what did he do, sweetheart?”

“He kissed my lips. Licked into my mouth. Made me… made me breathless…”

_“Mmm…” _ John keeps the thumb of his right hand moving over Sherlock’s hipbone, as he knows that’s one of his main erogenous zones, but his left hand he moves up further to run his fingers over Sherlock’s cupid-bow lips. “Here? He kissed you here?”

_“Yes…”_

“Open up, sweetheart.” 

Sherlock obeys immediately, and John slips two fingers into his mouth. Sherlock begins to suck them enthusiastically, and they both moan under their breaths. John thrusts his fingers in and out as Sherlock swirls his tongue around them, and for a moment John simply watches as Sherlock’s cheeks hollow deliciously around the invading digits.

Finally he manages to collect his thoughts again. “And then what did he do, love?” He pulls his fingers from Sherlock’s mouth and traces his plush lips with the residual moisture.

“He… he asked me if I wanted to go back to his place.”

“And what did you say?” John’s hands freeze in place, his own chest tight in rapt anticipation.

Sherlock bites his lip. “Yes. I said yes.”

_“Hngh…” _ John can’t fight the sound that rises up inside him at the thought. He imagines Sherlock and Aaron sharing a stare, dark and meaningful, as they weave across the dance floor and make their way out into the inviting cool of the night air. He starts moving his hands again, keeping his touch light and non-committal, fingertips barely skating across the miles of pale flesh exposed before him. “You took a taxi?”

Sherlock nods. His eyes are still closed, clearly lost in the tale. “Yes. He kept… he kept kissing me, _touching_ me…”

“Where did he touch you, sweetheart?”

“My face--” John lightly strokes Sherlock’s jawline-- “My chest--” John’s thumbs pluck mischievously at Sherlock’s erect nipples-- “My thighs--” John runs his hands over his muscular form-- “My… my cock?”

John pauses for a moment, and he can feel Sherlock tremble in anticipation, wondering if John would indulge him on this front…

John leans forward and whispers conspiratorially in Sherlock’s ear. _“Here?”_ And with that, he traces a single finger up the underside of Sherlock’s throbbing member.

The contact is so minimal John can’t imagine it feels like much, but Sherlock reacts like John’s just attached jumper cables to his groin. His body bows and pulls taught, and his head falls back with a pornographic moan. John grins deviously and repeats the action up the length of Sherlock’s shaft, then pauses to swirl his thumb over the moistened head. 

_“Ahhhhh… oh, God, yes… Just like that…” _He sounds nearly delirious with pleasure, and tiny beads of sweat and forming along his hairline. John delights in the fact that he’s reacting so strongly to such light stimulation, clearly lost in his own orations.

“And then what, love? What did Aaron do to you next?”

Sherlock starts and stammers, clearly struggling to communicate despite the onslaught of sensation. “He… he took me up to his flat.”

“Mmm.” John ceases his ministrations on Sherlock’s cock and goes back to lightly petting his chest. “And what happened at his flat?”

“We’d barely gotten through the door when he… he… he opened up his trousers and showed me his cock, and asked if I wanted to suck it.”

“And did you?”

Sherlock huffs a bit through his nose, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter as he conjures the scene. “Yes. Right there in the entryway.”

“Did you get on your knees to do it?”

“Yes.”

“Down.” Sherlock drops to his knees immediately, and John gives his hair a fond tousle before turning away from him to rummage through the drawer in the nightstand. “Did he fuck your face, or did he make you do the work?”

“He… he had me do it. He just leaned back against the wall and watched while I serviced him.”

“Show me.” John’s tone is gentle as he guides the vibrator up to Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock flicks his tongue out experimentally, orienting himself with the taste and texture of the device. His eyes are still closed, and John can see him conjuring the image of Aaron’s cock, thick and hard and demanding his attention. Without further hesitation, Sherlock seals his lips around its girth and swallows it down.

They both moan. John can imagine the look of bliss on Aaron’s face; he knows all too well what it feels like to have those gorgeous lips servicing his member, and he envisions the delight and awe that would wash over Aaron upon experiencing it for the first time.

Sherlock begins to bob his head, hollowing his cheeks pornographically as he sucks hard at the unrelenting shape of the vibrator. He holds nothing back, streaks of saliva coating the silicone as he works it diligently with his mouth, and John watches in reverent fascination.

“Did he touch you while you sucked him, sweetheart?”

“Mmmhmm.” Sherlock’s response is muffled by his full mouth, but John gets the message loud and clear. He gently twists the fingers of his free hand into Sherlock’s curls and proceeds to guide his head up and down the length of the shaft. Sherlock trembles and moans.

“Oh, God, _yes._ Did you like how it felt, having his cock in your mouth?”

“Mmmhmm…”

“What did you like about it? Tell me.” He pulls the vibrator away suddenly, leaving Sherlock gasping with his mouth agape.

Sherlock wipes the spit from his lips, but he keeps his eyes resolutely shut. “I liked… I liked how hot it was. He was so hard, John, he felt like velvet steel in my mouth.” John almost giggles at Sherlock’s erotic turn of phrase, but manages to hold back. “And the way he looked at me… _fuck,_ I could see how badly he wanted me, I could _feel _what he was going to do to me.”

John growls low in his throat. “And what was that?”

Sherlock whimpers, but soldiers on, eyes closing tighter in a combination of arousal and shame. “I knew he was going to fuck me. I knew it would be rough and hard and desperate but still so _good_ because he _knows_ me, John, knows what I want and what I like and how I _am. _ He _sees_ me and he still _wants_ me and that… that turns me on.”

The magnitude of what Sherlock is revealing to John washes over him like a flood tide. What he was saying is true; the first time Aaron had expressed sexual interest in Sherlock was _after_ they’d worked an incredibly complex case together. And while Aaron hadn’t articulated it particularly well in that particular instance, it soon became apparent that he was turned on by Sherlock’s mind and personality as much as he was his body. And for someone like Sherlock… well, John knows it’s a special connection, indeed.

“Yeah? It turns you on to know how much he wants you, sweetheart?”

Sherlock nods frantically. His lips are parted ever so slightly, and John takes advantage of the opportunity to shove the vibrator back between them.

Sherlock moans and resumes fellating the vibrator with voracious enthusiasm as John slowly reaches down and unfastens his own trousers and begins to stroke himself to full hardness, imagining Sherlock on his knees in the entryway of Aaron’s flat, servicing him while Aaron stared down at him, glassy-eyed and tongue-tied in backlit darkness.

Suddenly, Sherlock pulls back, his brow creased and his words an urgent staccato. “He had to make me stop.”

John raises his eyebrows. “He did?”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically. “He said he was too close. That I was too good.” (John smirks at the thought of this exchange.) “I told him he could come in my mouth, but he said he wanted… he wanted…”

John lowers his voice until it’s barely audible. “What did he want, love?”

“He wanted to come in my arse.” Sherlock’s shoulders are rounded and John can see his prick, red and dripping, twitch in front of him. He still hadn’t come yet tonight. The thought makes John lightheaded.

“And what did you say, sweetheart?” John’s words are deep and dangerous.

Sherlock hangs his head. “I told him… I told him he’d have to make it… make it good for me. But that if he made it good for me, I’d… I’d let him.”

John grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s curls and yanks them violently to the side, sending him toppling off balance, eyes flying open in the shock of the moment. _“You’d_ let him? You think that’s _your_ decision to make?” Sherlock lets out a pained cry as John tightens his grasp. John just laughs cruelly and Sherlock gazes up at him imploringly. “Who decides what goes in your arse, _darling?”_

_“You, John.”_

“You’re goddamn right. Never forget the only reason Aaron got to have you is because _I told you he could. Is that crystal clear?”_

“Y-y-yes, John, nnnngh-- please! Fuck, John, John, please! JOHN! I’m--”

For a moment John can’t tell what exactly Sherlock is begging for-- he’s not gripping his hair _that_ hard (at least, no harder than he usually did when they were being rough), but then he glances down and realises that Sherlock is _dangerously_ close to coming. His cock is a flushed nearly purple, and a thick string of precome is leaking from the tip onto the floor, his balls pulled up tight against his body.

John releases his hair immediately and takes a large step back. He knows how much being manhandled and claimed turns Sherlock on; it seems he’d taken him a bit too close to the edge for a moment there. He gives them both second to pause, to breathe, to get themselves back under control. Finally Sherlock issues a shuddering whine and slumps back onto his heels, his erection flagging a bit as he sighs with relief.

“Alright, sweetheart?” John’s tone is warm and reassuring-- he can’t believe Sherlock just got so turned on he almost came completely untouched.

Sherlock nods, still drawing deep breaths. “Yes. Sorry. Just… needed to collect myself for a moment.”

“No worries, love, that’s alright. I’m glad you’re having fun. Remember, you can always snap or tell me to pause if you need a break.”

Sherlock gives him a little smile. “I know. Sorry. Just sort of… came out of nowhere. Took me a bit by surprise.”

“That’s alright.” John approaches him again and gives his hair an affectionate ruffle. “If you’re ready, why don’t you tell me what happened next?”

Sherlock takes another steadying breath. “He helped me up and took me to the bedroom. He kissed me some more, and then he… he took my clothes off.”

John extends his hand and pulls Sherlock to his feet, then guides him over to their bed. He’s already naked so there’s no reason to pantomime the act of undressing, and Sherlock lowers himself back against the pillows with his signature agile grace.

“And then what, love?” John’s words are even and measured.

Sherlock’s eyes fall shut once more. “Then he undressed while I watched.”

“Mmm. And did you like what you saw?”

“God, _yes._ His body was… it was perfect. He had broad shoulders and strong arms and an SAS tattoo on his chest...”

“A_ tattoo?” _ John’s not sure if this is a factual statement or if it’s something Sherlock has added as his own personal embellishment, but he makes a mental note of it.

“Yes. It’s hot as hell. And God, John, he’s so _tall--”_

A fresh flame of fury flares up inside John’s gut like a spark. He’s not exactly self-conscious about his height; he’s long since come to terms that what he lacks in verticality he can easily make up for in charisma and prowess, and that knowledge has served him well over the years. But something about imagining Sherlock dwarfed by Aaron’s 6’4 frame is undeniably arousing, and his prick twitches eagerly in front of him as he conjures the scene, Sherlock splayed wantonly on the bed while Aaron’s muscular form stalks towards him like a predator closing in.

“And then?”

Sherlock’s voice goes low and quiet. “Then he told me to get on my hands and knees.”

“Do it.” Sherlock complies, his eyes still closed, lost in the moment. John’s mouth feels dry as he admires the perfect pert swell of his arse and the graceful arch of his back, the way his hips sway_ just so_ as he moves into position. God, Sherlock Holmes was _made_ to be fucked.

“And then what did he do?”

Sherlock buries his head in his arms and murmurs something unintelligible.

“What was that, sweetheart? I can’t hear you.”

Sherlock lifts his head and clears his throat before whispering, “He… he ate me out.”

John raises his eyebrows good-naturedly. “Oh, he did, did he? That was very generous of him. Was he any good?”

_“God_ yes. He started out just… tounging at my perineum a bit while he spread my cheeks with his hands.”

“Hmm.” John kneels on the bed behind Sherlock and sets the vibrator aside for the time being, then leans forward to indulge Sherlock’s whim.

“NNNGH! Oh, fuck, yes, just like that. And then… then he stopped and started kissing the back of my neck.”

“Mmm. Here?” John hovers over Sherlock and presses a gentle kiss to his top vertebrae. 

“Yes, exactly, _there_… Then he… then he started kissing along my spine. Lower. And… and lower…”

John follows Sherlock’s instructions to a T, sensually licking and kissing his way down the hollow divot of his spine. Beneath him, Sherlock sighs and moans, his hips swaying eagerly like he’s in the throes of heat (John dutifully keeps this thought to himself, but the idea of it goes straight to his cock).

“And he paused right… right _there.” _ John’s lips are hovering just above his sacrum, breath hot and heavy against Sherlock’s blood-hot skin.

“And then?” John’s voice has gone gravelly, and there’s a hint of a growl at the end of the phrase. 

Sherlock shivers. “He put his tongue inside me.”

John leans down and forces his tongue as far as he can straight into Sherlock’s open hole.

The noise Sherlock makes is so pornographic John momentarily hesitates, but realises now’s not the time for posterity. He swirls his tongue and locks his lips around Sherlock’s tender rim and sucks fervently as he flicks his tongue in and out of Sherlock’s passage.

It’s… well, it’s not exactly pleasant. It’s not that John _minds_ rimming Sherlock, per se, but he usually makes sure it’s one of the first things on the menu if he does. As it stands, he and Sherlock have already had penetrative intercourse once tonight, so Sherlock’s channel is slick with lube and John’s come, the taste of which is less than ideal.

But that fact is blissfully eclipsed by the way Sherlock is _completely losing his goddamn mind._ He’s wailing like a banshee and swiveling his hips as John pleasures him, eating him out with such gusto that John has to wrap his forearm tightly around Sherlock’s waist to hold him still so he can service him more fully. He uses his free hand to pull Sherlock’s cheek to the side, opening him further to John’s ministrations, and before he knows it, Sherlock has dropped to his forearms and is rambling incoherently, lost in the sensation.

John indulges him for a long time, giving him the most decadent rimming of his life. All thoughts of his own enjoyment fly out the window as he focuses on Sherlock’s reaction to the thought of Aaron doing this to him. It’s so erotic, John can barely think.

At long last, he pulls away and wipes the mess from his face. Before him, Sherlock’s hole is glistening and open, and he sincerely hopes Sherlock is ready to move things along, because if not, he may come completely untouched himself.

“Like that, sweetheart? Is that how Aaron ate you out?”

“Fuck. Yes. Fuck. _Fuck. So good. So good…” _ Sherlock’s face is still buried in his forearms, and he sounds on the brink of being overwhelmed. 

John runs his hands gently up and down his sides, soothing him. “Shhh. Easy there, love. Just relax. You alright to keep going?”

“Yes, John.” The answer is watery but firm. 

“Alright, then. What happened next?”

“He… he took my hands and put them on the headboard and told me to hold on.”

John reaches down to grab Sherlock by the wrists, then positions his hands on the headboard.

“Yes, exactly…” Sherlock sounds breathless as he rolls his back and arches, presenting his arse even more enticingly.

“And then?”

There’s an eternal pause.

“Then he… he put his cock in me.”

“Mmm.” John makes a non-committal sound and picks up the vibrator once more. “Did he use lube?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Just a bit. But I could still… I could still feel it. He made me feel it.”

“And did he wear a condom?”

Sherlock’s head sags between his arms. “No. He took me raw.”

And_ fuck,_ if that’s not a pretty picture…

John gently guides the vibrator to Sherlock’s fluttering hole, then presses it inside in a single, slow thrust, just the way he knows Sherlock lies.

Sherlock cries out and rolls his body again, and John can see beads of sweat forming along his spine. Christ, he’s_ beautiful _like this…

“And once he was inside you… how did he fuck you?”

Sherlock swallows. “Slow. But not… not gentle. Just slow, hard thrusts. Pulling all the way out and then pushing all the way in, making me… making me feel how deep he was fucking me.”

“Like this?” John mimics the action with the vibrator, pulling it slowly out until just the tip is resting at Sherlock’s puckered entrance, then rapidly thrusting it forward to its full depth.

“GAH! OH, FUCK, YES! Yes, God, just like that, keep going, keep going, oh FUCK…” John continues to work the vibrator in and out of him and a steady, deliberate pace. Below him, Sherlock wails and gyrates, and John smiles imagining what it feels like when Sherlock does that with John’s cock inside of him. It’s transcendent.

“Feel good?”

“NGH! Yes, God… oh-- Aaron! Aaron, yes! Aaron, FUCK, fuck me! Aaron, fuck me!”

“Mmm, he fucked you so well, didn’t he, love? Were you good at taking his cock?”

“Yes, John, I was good, I was so good, you would have been so proud…”

“Oh, I bet, love. I bet you took his cock like a champion. You’re always so good at being fucked, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John! Oh! J-J-John! Aaron! Aaron, mmm! MMM!” Sherlock’s knuckles are white as he clutches the headboard, the muscles in his arms straining against the intrusion he’s experiencing.

“He-- he started speeding up.” Sherlock’s words are a frantic tumble, and John quickly complies, thrusting the vibrator in and out in sharper, shallower, faster strokes. “He… ngh, he was telling me how beautiful I was, how amazing my arse felt, how he’d been dreaming about doing this from that first case we worked together…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He said… he said he wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d fucked my gorgeous brain right out of my head.”

“Oh, my. And what did you say?”

“I told him I wanted him to. I told him to use me, fuck me until I couldn’t _think, _couldn’t _breathe,_ until I was…”

“Until you were what, sweetheart?”

“Until I was nothing but a hot hole for him to use.”

_“Jesus,_ Sherlock…”

_“Johnnn…” _John’s name comes out as a whine, and John has to wipe the sweat from his own brow with his free hand.

“And then what happened? Did he finish in you like this, on your hands and knees, bent over and taking it all from behind?”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment, and John can tell he’s gauging how he wants this to end. Then he shakes his head violently.

“No. No, he pulled out and flipped me over and then spread my legs with his hands and thrust inside me, and told me he wanted to watch my face as he came.”

“Fuck, _yes--” _ There’s a brief clambering as they both reorient themselves, Sherlock rolling onto his back and holding himself open by the thighs as John shuffles up between his legs and presses the vibrator back in and resumes thrusting.

“Oh! Oh God, yes, just like that, John, just like that…”

“Like this? This is how he was fucking you?”

“Yes! Yes, harder, _harder, oh fuck, Aaron, Aaron, yes, YES! God!”_

John looms over Sherlock and focuses all his concentration on pistoning the vibrator in and out of him as fast and hard as he can. “Did you come?”

Sherlock wails.

“Sherlock? Did you come while he was fucking you?”

Sherlock bites his lip, his head thrashing from side to side. Then he throws his arm over his eyes and lets out a frustrated whine. “I don’t _know!”_

It takes John a moment to realise what he’s saying. Then it finally becomes clear: he doesn’t know what he wants. He wants John to take control, to tell him what to do. He wants John to give him permission to let go.

“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Go ahead.”

Sherlock whines again, still hiding his face as John continues to pound his arse.

John pauses his movement for a split second-- just long enough to turn the vibrator on and press it ruthlessly against Sherlock’s prostate.

“Come on his cock, love. Go ahead and come on Aaron’s cock for me.”

“GAH!” Sherlock’s arms fly to his sides and his hands tangle in the sheets as he spread his legs and arches his back, eyes slammed shut. He begins to undulate his own pelvis in time with John’s thrusts.

“Oh, God, John-- he’s going to come! He’s going to come in me!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, let it happen, I’m here--”

“Oh! Oh! He’s-- he’s going to make me come too, oh God, _John!”_

“Let me see it, love. Let me see how hard you go off when he comes inside you. Let me see how badly you want it.”

“Oh God-- Aaron! Aaron! Aaron! AUGH! He’s coming! He’s coming! He’s--”

And then Sherlock’s eyes roll back and his body bows and his cock releases thick ribbons of come up the length of his torso, pulsing in time with John’s thrusts of the vibrator. His face contorts into a silent scream as his transport takes control.

He’s still in the throes of the aftershocks, trembling and gasping, when John withdraws the vibrator and climbs on top of him. The sudden desire to _control, possess, consume_ is so strong he feels drunk with it. The thought of Aaron _being_ with Sherlock like that, pleasuring him like that, bringing him to ecstasy like that, it makes John’s chest clench and his eyes burn and his throat close up tight with rage. Sherlock is _his,_ only _his, _always has been, always will be, and he needs to show Sherlock just how _thoroughly_ he belongs to him.

He expects Sherlock to be bonelessly compliant, to sink back into the mattress and allow John to have his way with him, to bask in the afterglow as John reaffirms his dominance.

So it takes him rather by surprise when Sherlock all but throws him off, turns himself over, and attempts to scramble towards the edge of the bed. John manages to catch him by the ankle and haul him backwards, but it’s not enough. Sherlock flails weakly as John mounts him from behind, crying out loudly at the initial penetration.

“Hold still, sweetheart. Let me have you.” John’s words are a terse growl in his ear. “Going to remind you who you belong to. Who owns this body of yours.”

Sherlock bucks backwards and unseats John with a valiant shout, then manages to twist around and catch the arm John was attempting to throw around his neck to subdue him.

“The _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” John’s not in the mood for games. He needs to reassert his dominance _right the hell now._

Sherlock bares his teeth, hair wild and eyes bright. He certainly doesn’t look like a sub in the throes of subspace. Their noses are inches apart, both of them breathing heavily. 

“I’m sore. Aaron fucked me so hard I could barely sit in the cab ride home. You’ll have to wait your turn.” Sherlock spits out the words in a flagrant display of insubordination.

John freezes for a moment, then takes stock of the situation.

Sherlock didn’t say _‘No.’ _He and John never play at non-con, so unless he verbalises the actual word _‘No’ _or _‘Stop,’ _the game is still on. He hasn’t snapped his fingers, which is their non-verbal cue that he needs a break.

So then what the hell was he getting at?

It hits John like a bolt of lightning.

It’s a _challenge._ He actually has the _audacity_ to issue a goddamn _challenge._ He wants John to _fight _to take him down and reclaim him.

Well, if it’s a fight he wants, it’s a fight he’ll get.

John takes a deep breath through his nose, and pounces.

It’s violent. Almost shockingly so. This isn’t the first time Sherlock’s put up a physical fight while they were having a session, but it’s certainly the most intense. Sherlock is incorrigibly unwieldy, twisting wildly out of John’s grasp as John struggles to keep him in the bed. Within moments they’re engaged in a full-on grapple so fervent, the sexual nature of it becomes almost secondary to the quest for control.

The neurons in John’s brain are firing on hyperdrive. The savagery of their combat intermingles with his agonising arousal, and he suddenly finds himself so turned on he’s _consumed_ by it. Sherlock is stark naked, just miles of pale, perfect skin stretched over flexing muscles and straining tendons. John is still fully dressed but his cock is free, so each time he manages to lock Sherlock into place, he penetrates him and attempts to get off a few good thrusts as Sherlock howls and screams beneath him before bucking him off and attempting his next escape.

But Sherlock never taps out. He never says_ ‘Stop’ _or _‘No.’ _ And even when he executes a maneuver that should for all intents and purposes allow him enough time to scramble off of the bed, he suddenly slows his movements and lets John reel him back in for more.

It’s exhilarating. It’s breathtaking. It’s pure ecstasy.

By the time John manages to capture him in a chokehold and roll them onto their sides, they’re both soaked in sweat and breathing as if they’ve just run a marathon. Sherlock squirms and struggles, but John tightens his elbow around his throat as a warning-- not enough to cut off his air supply, but enough to warn him that he very well could should he decide to. Sherlock wriggles a bit and then stills, his laboured breath wet as he whimpers in defeat.

John wraps a leg firmly around him, then guides his cock between his cheeks.

He sinks in easily, even as Sherlock moans in protest. His hips begin to thrust as if completely of their own accord. John doesn’t feel like himself anymore; he feels like a feral animal mounting its mate in a ruthless act of dominance.

He’s so turned on he knows he won’t last long, but he doesn’t have the self-discipline to try and reel his body in. He reams Sherlock as hard and fast as he can, setting a punishing pace as he holds his throat firmly in the crook of his arm, a reminder of what he can do if Sherlock attempts to fight back. Finally, Sherlock stills, and John rocks fully inside of him.

His orgasm is full and deep and radiates through every muscle in his adrenaline-wired body. The feeling of his come flooding Sherlock’s channel is almost a palpable_ relief _to his lizard-brain, which delights in a conquest hard-won. He shouts and moans his way through it, uneven spasms of pleasure wracking his body over and over until he sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of Sherlock’s shoulder with a helpless sob.

He’s not sure how long he holds Sherlock there before releasing him. When he finally does, their bodies slide apart with a sickening slick sound, Sherlock rolling onto his front with a moan and John collapsing onto his back, staring up at the ceiling in wide-eyed bewilderment, attempting to process what the hell had just happened.

“Jesus _Christ.” _ He’s breaking character, he knows that, but _fuck-- _whatever that was, it had been bloody_ amazing._

“Name’s Sherlock.” The response is muffled by the pillows, but John snorts with laughter anyway. Seems Sherlock had enjoyed himself too, then.

“You alright, love?”

“Mmmhmm.”

John manages to turn his head to the side and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s sweat-soaked hair. “You all done? Or you want more?”

Sherlock finally turns his head to face John, who’s delighted to note that his pupils are so blown that his irises have disappeared entirely. “Did you have more planned?”

John grins. “I did. But we can always save it for later if you’re finished for tonight.”

Sherlock shakes his head and burrows his face in the pillow, murmuring something unintelligible-- he always gets endearingly shy when John makes him ask for what he wants.

“Sorry, sweetheart, can’t hear you.”

“I said, _more, please.”_

John sits up and presses a kiss between his shoulderblades. “As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I wrote too much porn and had to add a chapter. This is me not even pretending to apologise.


	4. Chapter 4

John quickly examines him for tearing. As he suspected, the area looks a bit sore, but nothing to worry about-- though they’d been rough, he’d used plenty of lube, and Sherlock doesn’t vocalise any sensations of discomfort as John gently fingers him.

“Alright, sweetheart. All good back here. You’re looking very messy tonight, you know that?”

“Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome. Now, wait right here-- I’m going to fetch a few things.” John manages to roll out of bed and onto his feet, valiantly ignoring his body’s protests; Sherlock had _not_ been messing about during that grappling session, and he’s fairly certain he’s going to have some bruises of his own tomorrow. He makes his way to the closet and pulls out a belt and a scarf before returning to Sherlock’s bedside. 

“Love, I’d like to blindfold you for this next part. Is that alright?”

Sherlock rolls over to beam up at him. “Yes, please, John.”

“Good.” John ties the scarf around his eyes, and John can immediately see Sherlock’s body relaxing; sensory deprivation seemed to do him good at this point in the session.

“Next: Are you up for a little more breathplay tonight?”

“Oh, God, yes.” Sherlock tips his head back and bares his throat, and John’s spent cock gives a resolute twitch at the sight.

“Lovely.” John reaches down and fastens the belt around Sherlock’s throat, then wraps the loose end around his own hand and gives it a light tug. “Now, stand up and follow me.”

Sherlock freezes for a moment, and John’s stomach constricts in nervous anticipation. Was this too much? When he’d envisioned doing this it had felt less pervy than some of the other activities they’d engaged in in the past (like having Sherlock crawl on all-fours), but suddenly the thought of leading a blindfolded Sherlock around with a belt like a leash seems… well, a bit more _exotic_ than their usual fare.

But then Sherlock resolutely pushes himself up to stand, and John can’t wipe the grin from his face as he leads him carefully through the flat to the sitting room, using the belt to guide him. They come to a stop beside John’s chair, and John picks up the Union Jack pillow and places it strategically at Sherlock’s feet.

“Kneel, sweetheart. Nice and easy-- yup, right there, one leg at a time. Lovely.” Sherlock settles into position, his breath coming in slow, measured beats. He looks blissfully relaxed like this, especially with the scarf eliminating his vision. “Beautiful. Stay.”

John settles in his chair and picks up his Sudoku book and a pencil off the end table. He keeps the belt wound tight around his right hand, not enough pressure on it to restrict Sherlock’s breathing in any way, but just enough to reassure Sherlock he’s there. He flicks the book open and gets to work.

It’s quiet. Almost surreally so. There’s the distant ticking of the clock, the hum of the fridge, the occasional rattle of the radiator. The sounds of _quiet_ and _safety_ and _home. _ John works on his puzzle. Sherlock breathes.

He’s about halfway through his puzzle when Sherlock shifts a bit and makes a non-committal hum in the back of his throat. He doesn’t seem to be misbehaving, but John figures he ought to check to make sure his knees aren’t hurting him.

“You alright, love?”

“Yes, John.”

“You seem a little fidgety.”

“I’m just..” Sherlock clears his throat, and John’s momentarily mortified to realise Sherlock is actually _blushing_ beneath his blindfold. “...I’m leaking a bit.”

_“Oh.” _ John feels a little breathless at the thought. “Is that… good for you?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

John purses his lips together. “Alright, then. Be still, you.”

“Yes, John.”

They lapse back into silence, but John soon finds he’s been sitting staring at the same blank square of his puzzle for so long he can’t even remember what he was supposed to be solving for.

Nothing for it, then. He might as well have a bit of fun in the meantime. Ever so slowly, he coils the belt around his fist, tightening the loop around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock intakes a startled breath, but he doesn’t move as the leather constricts around his throat. He remains perfectly still as John pulls the band taut, and sets himself in obedient rigidity as the loop pulls tighter and tighter. He swallows twice, then with a final pull, John cuts off his air supply altogether.

He can see the tendons in Sherlock’s throat flexing, the way his Adam’s apple bobs in response to the stress. Sherlock’s skin is flushed, and his bare chest hiccups in a futile effort to drag in air. His mouth opens and closes with a slick, wet sound, desperately seeking the oxygen that simply won’t come.

John steadies himself, and counts.

When he finally he releases the chokehold, Sherlock heaves a ragged breath, chugging as much air into his deprived lungs as he can. John has solved another row of his puzzle, and places a neat “6” in the previously empty square with an air of smug satisfaction.

They carry on like that for a full half hour. John deprives Sherlock of air at random intervals whenever he finds himself stuck on an answer, and beside him, Sherlock sways and gasps and _obeys_ so beautifully that it takes all of John’s willpower to keep his attention focused on his Sudoku. He’s fastidious about his timing (he knows damn well the dangers of engaging in breathplay for too long), and it’s with a sigh of relief that he finally slaps his puzzle book shut and turns his full attention to the man kneeling beside him.

“Are you ready to be good for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and raspy, and John’s cock twitches at the sound of it.

John pauses, pretending to mull over this response. “You were very bad earlier tonight, letting another man fuck you like that. Then you misbehaved while I was trying to teach you your lesson.”

Sherlock hangs his head. “I know, John. I’m sorry, John. I was… I was wrong. He means nothing to me. _Nothing.”_

“Ahhh, I see what’s happened here. Now that I’ve claimed you, put my come in you, got you back under my control, now you’re being all sweet and good for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John.”

“And why is that?”

Sherlock licks his lips. “Because I’m yours.”

“Say that again, love. Louder this time.”

“Because I’m_ yours.”_ His voice has gone high and desperate, and John smiles in satisfaction.

“That’s absolutely right. You’re mine. And now that I’ve reminded you of that fact, I think you deserve a little reward, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s spine straightens impossibly further. “...Yes?” He seems dumbfounded by his luck.

John chuckles. “Yes, I think so.” He brushes his thumb over where the leather of the belt meets Sherlock’s fluttering pulse, and Sherlock leans into the touch. It’s dizzying, the kind of control he exerts over this man in moments like this, and for a moment, John allows himself to simply bask in it.

“Alright. First things first, I want to make sure you’re still nice and full. Hands and knees for me?”

Sherlock assumes the position without hesitation, and John makes rather a show of rising from his chair and walking with heavy footfalls to stand behind Sherlock before prying open his cheeks to admire the mess between them.

“Oh, that’s lovely. But you were right, sweetheart, you _were_ leaking a bit. Here, let me put that back inside you.” He gently runs his thumbs through the slick of lube and come gathered at Sherlock’s opening, then firmly pushes it back inside. Sherlock keens, but he holds still.

John pushes as much back into him as he can, then reaches into his pocket for Sherlock’s plug, which he’d grabbed from the nightstand drawer before they left the bedroom. He positions it at his entrance, then slowly guides it inside.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock drops to his elbows, and John can detect a quiver in his voice.

“You alright?”

“Yes, I’m just. _Fuck,_ John, you fill me up so well…”

John gives Sherlock’s arsecheek a playful pinch and then rights himself. “You’re damn right I do, and you’d best not forget that fact. Now, before I give you your reward, I’d like to go over some rules. I’ll need verbal consent for all of this, okay?”

Sherlock gives a resolute nod of his head. “Yes.”

“I’d like to spank you now, as a reward for being so good for me. Would you like that?”

_“Jesus, yes, please, John, fuck…” _ The mere mention of the act seems to have made Sherlock breathless, and John’s heart does a little tap dance in his chest.

“Good. Can you tell me our rules for spanking?”

Sherlock lets out a low whine.

“No, sweetheart, this isn’t an open-book test. Come on, use that pretty little palace of yours and tell me what our rules are.”

Sherlock pulls himself back up onto his hands and seems to gather himself once more. “I tell you how hard and how fast I want it.”

“Very good, that’s right. And?”

“I let you know when you’ve found the right spot.”

“That’s correct. And?”

“And I’m allowed to yell and cry, but I also need to give _enthusiastic verbal consent_ the entire time you’re spanking me.”

“Very good! And what happens if you want to slow down?”

“I say, ‘_Slow down.’”_

“And if you want to stop?”

“I say _‘No’ _or _‘Stop.’”_

“That’s right, love. And if you aren’t able to speak?”

“Snap my fingers.”

“Perfect! You’re so clever, you know, love, remembering all our rules for me like that.” He can see Sherlock preening a bit beneath his blindfold, and the image makes John smirk. Sherlock can recite the periodic table of elements (including atomic mass) from memory, and yet here he is priding himself on the fact he can remember a few simple rules for impact play-- it’s endearing, really.

“Now. I’m going to get comfortable.” John takes a few deliberate paces and lowers himself back into his chair, perching himself on the edge of the seat. “Now, sweetheart… come here.”

Gently, he guides the blindfolded Sherlock forward then has him turn a bit to the side. Then gracefully, he helps him up off his hands and drapes him slowly across his lap.

Sherlock freezes.

“Is this okay?” John’s never spanked Sherlock in this position before. The few times they’ve done it it’s been on the bed, not with Sherlock splayed across his lap like a naughty child in their sitting room. There’s a distinctly deviant flavour to this new position, and John holds his breath as he awaits the answer.

“...Yes. Yes, I think. _ Yes.”_ The final ‘yes’ is more resolute, and John takes it as consent.

“Okay. Just let me know if at any point this doesn’t feel okay.”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Now, let’s find your sweet spot, shall we?” John takes a lavish palmful of Sherlock’s arsecheek in his hand and gives it a squeeze, and Sherlock hums enthusiastically in response. Tentatively, John presses against the mound of tender flesh.

It takes him a few tries to find that perfect point where the plug comes into contact with Sherlock’s prostate, but he knows the second he finds it; Sherlock’s back bows and he issues an animalistic grunt, and John can feel his cock spring to life against his thigh.

“Oh, is that it, love? Right there?” He pushes again, and Sherlock groans.

“Yes. Oh, _fuck,_ yes, right there…”

“Amazing. Now, love, this is supposed to be your reward. Where does it feel best for you to put your cock?”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. “Between… between your thighs?”

“Alright, have at it, then.”

Sherlock wriggles eagerly into position, and John squeezes his thighs tight around Sherlock’s turgid member.

“Lovely. Now, there’s one little catch, sweetheart, before we get started.”

Sherlock stills in rapt anticipation.

“I’m going to control your breathing while we do this.” John wraps his hand into the dangling end of the belt around Sherlock’s throat. “You can do whatever you need to do: Thrust, scream, cry, yell, you can even touch yourself as hard and fast as you want to get yourself to come. You have my permission to do whatever feels good. But I’ll be controlling_ this.” _ John gives the belt a resolute tug, and Sherlock bucks in response.

“Oh, _fuck.” _ Sherlock is shaking.

“All good?”

“God, _yes, please--”_

“Then let’s begin.” And without a moment’s hesitation, John raises his hand and brings it down firm and fast against Sherlock’s quivering buttock.

Impact play used to scare him. Sherlock had had to pull out all the stops to even get John to agree to _try_ it. But thanks to several rounds of enthusiastic negotiation, they’ve reached a solid middle ground: Sherlock provides specific, enthusiastic instructions for how to hit him to get him off, and John simply follows his instructions to the best of his abilities. Sherlock gets off on the fact that John’s hitting him (or, more specifically, drilling an anal plug directly into his prostate via external impact), and John gets off on the fact that Sherlock is _going out of his goddamn mind with delirious pleasure._

“Faster. A little faster. NGH! NGH, yeah! Oh, fuck,_ there! There! _ Oh-- Oh yes. Oh, _yes…”_

Sherlock gyrates his hips as John spanks him, stimulating his swollen shaft against John’s thighs.

“Oh… yes, John, just like that… just… keep going. Oh. _Oh. Oh my God. Oh my GOD. Oh, fuck, it’s so good, it’s SO GOOD…”_

John establishes a steady pace, then yanks the belt taut around Sherlock’s throat, choking him out.

Sherlock struggles and flails for a moment, but John keeps his rhythm steady as he slaps his arse and cuts off his air simultaneously. He doesn’t hold him like that for very long - this is supposed to be about Sherlock’s pleasure, and John doesn’t want to interfere with him chasing his release. He just wants to make sure that release is as intense as physically possible.

The moment John lets the belt loose, Sherlock rakes in a savage breath and then continues to spew his litany of demands and praise.

“Harder! Harder now, John, oh fuck, FUCK! Oh! There! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod--”

John rains down a relentless series of blows, and Sherlock begins to hump his lap helplessly, throwing back his head in ecstasy.

“That’s it, that’s it, sweetheart. Hold on, now.” John tightens the belt again, and Sherlock’s body jerks and tenses at the sensations overtaking his nervous system.

John counts to ten then lets go, and Sherlock grits out a colourful series of curse words under his breath. John simply keeps his blows steady and his thighs tight, and watches as Sherlock seeks his release.

Suddenly, his whole body seems to go stiff. “John! John, John, I’m close. Oh, God, I’m close.”

John doesn’t let his rhythm falter, and focuses on maintaining his aim to ensure the plug is still dialed in on his prostate. “Okay, love. Want me to choke you as you come?”

“Oh, God, _yes please…”_

“Okay. Just let me know when.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock bows his head, and John watches in rapt fascination as he wraps his right hand underneath himself and presses John’s thighs apart, then proceeds to take himself in hand and jerk himself in rough, rapid motions.

“I’m close. Fuck, I’m so close. Don’t stop. John, don’t stop, please, a little harder, a little faster, faster, there, I’m almost there… _Ungh! Ungh! Ungh! _ Oh! OH! John, NOW! NOW!”

John yanks the belt as tight as he can, knuckles going white with effort as his other hand rains down a demanding series of blows onto Sherlock’s backside. For a moment Sherlock stills, then his forearm becomes a blur as he brings himself over the crest. Sherlock can’t draw breath to vocalise his pleasure, but John’s familiar enough with his body to know the precise moment he loses control and tumbles over the edge, his muscles spasming and back arching as his body is wracked with waves of rapture.

John counts slowly to five, then releases the belt.

The sound Sherlock makes is unlike any John’s heard him make before. It’s somewhere between a gasp and a scream, reverberating from his ribcage through his tender throat. He throws his head back and wails, undulating his pelvis in tantalizing circles as he continues to jerk himself frantically through the throes of orgasm.

John doesn’t stop striking him until Sherlock suddenly goes boneless his lap. It’s a startling transition; one moment it seems every muscle in his body is pulled tight and thrumming with ecstasy, and the next he’s like a puppet that’s been cut from its strings, motionless and flaccid as the pleasure ebs, giving way to aching overstimulation. He’s still whimpering and twitching a bit, but it’s clear he’s finished.

John can’t wait a moment longer.

“Come here.” He pulls up on the belt and Sherlock slides gracelessly back onto his knees, torso swaying upright. John peels the blindfold away and casts it aside. Sherlock is staring back at John with wide, unseeing eyes.

“Stand up. Turn to face away from me. Straddle my legs. Good. Hold still.” Without fanfare, John spreads Sherlock’s cheeks and pulls out the plug, eliciting a howl from the man standing above him. His own cock throbs as he observes the glistening come already filling Sherlock’s fluttering hole. “Now sit on my prick and ride me.”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. In one smooth motion he crouches to allow John the opportunity to line up his member, then lowers his full weight onto John’s lap in one steady slide.

“Oh, _fuck_ that’s good. Christ, you’re so wet, sweetheart. Ride me, come on.” He swats Sherlock’s already-inflamed cheek, and with a startled cry, Sherlock begins to bounce.

John eases himself back to recline in his chair, then grabs the end of the belt once more with his left hand. He doesn’t pull it hard enough to cut off Sherlock’s airflow, but it’s certainly tight enough that Sherlock can feel it: the eternal threat of John’s total dominance. His right hand John guides to Sherlock’s hip, and quickly helps him set the pace.

He watches in delight as Sherlock fucks himself, observing how gorgeously the scars on his back seem to roll and twist with the effort of his ministrations. His hips gyrate in hypnotizing undulations, and John moans as his cock is squeezed tight in Sherlock’s passage with each repetition. He can see everything so perfectly from this angle, like the way the lube and come already coating Sherlock’s insides leak down the length of John’s prick as he rides him, a pornographic display of the evening’s indulgences. Christ, Sherlock was _perfect _when he was like this, filthy and debauched and entirely devoted to John’s pleasure.

Finally, John’s looked his fill. He gives the rope a light tug before he speaks. “That’s lovely, sweetheart. Now lie back and let me finish in you.” Sherlock complies thoughtlessly, melting back against John’s chest and letting his head loll helplessly against his shoulder.

“Shh, very good, love. Just a little more, alright? I just need to push you a little further. Okay?”

Sherlock gives a groggy nod. “Yes, John.” His words sound thick and distant.

“Alright. Just hold still.” And with that, John moves his right hand from Sherlock’s hip to wrap it around his spent prick, then begins to briskly fondle him.

Sherlock wails at the overstimulation, but it has its desired effect: His body clenches vise-tight around John’s cock, and John shouts in appreciation.

“Oh, God, yeah, that makes you go so tight love, so tight, just hold on, let me finish…” He jerks Sherlock’s flaccid cock then cups his balls, alternating between the two as in his lap, Sherlock moans and writhes. “That’s it… that’s it… let me… let me…”

John’s left hand tightens the belt and Sherlock stills, surrendering his body entirely.

John comes.

It’s a beautiful, blooming thing, a tight shiver that manifests into a full-body shudder that makes his limbs go lax and his head go light and his hips grind _up up up_ into that wet, tight heat, and _God, oh God, oh God…_

He blinks his eyes open to the oppressive, incredibly sweaty sensation of having 75 kilos of collapsed consulting detective completely covering his body. He does his best to get his wits about him as quickly as possible, but he can’t even manage to drag in a full breath with Sherlock on top of him like this. As gently as he can, he takes Sherlock by the shoulders and presses until his torso is upright, finally giving John a chance to breathe.

Sherlock makes an odd whimpering sound and leans further forward, propping his forearms onto his thighs, letting his head droop as he takes a fortifying breath of his own.

The next thing John knows, he’s cursing and shouting and grabbing Sherlock forcibly by the hips, locking him into place as somehow, impossibly, the new angle of Sherlock’s body wrests yet _another _orgasm out of his already oversensitized cock.

John’s never experienced anything quite like it before. He’s not quite sure if it’s simply a continuation of his previous orgasm or if somehow his body had decided it wasn’t _quite_ finished coming yet, but he finds himself digging his heels helplessly into the rug as his thighs flex and his arms shake and he emits at least a half dozen more pulses of come into Sherlock. Each emission feels sharp and hard and nearly painful, and he soon finds himself gritting his teeth and slamming his eyes shut, simply waiting for the onslaught of sensation to end.

“Oh fuck,_ fuck,_ fuck me! Oh, _fuck!” _ He swivels his hips a bit as the last few spasms work their way through him, and a bone-wracking shiver makes its way up his spine.

The second he’s finished, he heaves Sherlock by the hips up and off his prick. Sherlock, clearly still utterly spent and completely off-balance, folds rather gracelessly to lie face-down on the sitting room floor. John remains collapsed in his chair.

And then everything is silent, except for the sound of their stunned, gasping breaths.

John has no idea how long they remain there, motionless and shellshocked, each drowning in the tidal wave of post-coital endorphins. All he can conclude is that it appears to be a very, very, very long time.

But eventually his brain catches up to his body. Some little voice manages to shout over the preening victory song of his lizard-brain and ask him, _Aren’t you supposed to be a goddamn Dom? Did you honestly just leave your Sub_ alone _on the floor after you finished with him? GET IT TOGETHER, WATSON!_

_Fuck._

With a start, John sits bolt upright, shaking himself out of his stupor. He looks down at where Sherlock is splayed prone on the carpet, lungs heaving and limbs akimbo. His eyes are closed. He looks _wrecked._

“Sherlock, sweetheart. Are you okay? That was… that was…”

“Amazing?” The response is so muffled that John barely registers it.

“What?”

“Extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.” Sherlock blinks his eyes open and props himself up on his forearms, peering coquettishly back at John over his shoulder to give him a coy smile. “Didn’t you think so?” 

John’s breaks into a grin. “Hell yes. Fuck, that was… something else.”

Sherlock rolls his neck contentedly and slowly pulls himself up onto his hands and knees, beaming and looking rather smug all at the same time. “Wasn’t it just?”

John can’t help but lean forward and pull him into a long, passionate kiss.

They finally break apart. “How are you feeling, love?”

Sherlock seems to take stock of his body. “Good. Sore. Weirdly, I don’t feel… _under._ I’m not as out of it as I usually am when we finish a session. I just feel… happy. Content.”

John gives him a reassuring smile and runs his hands down the back of Sherlock’s neck, gently massaging his traps. “That’s good to hear. Do you still want some aftercare, though?”

Sherlock smiles up at him. “A shower might be nice.”

“Shower it is, then.” With that, John rises (a bit unsteadily) to his feet, then offers Sherlock a hand, which he gladly accepts.

They make their way to the bathroom, and Sherlock leans heavily against the wall as John adjusts the taps to their preferred post-session temperature. He eases Sherlock inside, then strips down and follows him under the spray and proceeds to wash him with sandalwood soap. Sherlock sighs happily as John’s hands skim over his sensitized skin, and amicably pretends not to notice when John spends just a _bit _more time than wholly necessary cleaning the come from between his cheeks.

“Feeling good, love?” John presses a kiss to the base of his neck. Sherlock just hums and reaches out to grab his eucalyptus shampoo, pressing the bottle firmly into John’s palm before folding gracefully to sit on the tub floor in front of him. John takes the hint, and pours a generous palmful to work into Sherlock’s damp hair.

“Sitting alright?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Right now it just… burns. But I like it. I want to feel it.”

John nods diplomatically. “Alright, then.” He lets them lapse into a short silence and watches as Sherlock’s shoulders slowly relax.

“So… ahem… What did… um, what did you and Aaron _actually_ get up to tonight?”

Sherlock sighs and cracks his neck contentedly as John works his hair into a luscious lather. “Went to that sushi place by his flat that we like, then tried a new wine bar on South Lambeth.”

“Any good?”

“I tried a _Chardonnay_ that I liked.” Sherlock sounds distinctly glum at the notion.

John issues a faux-scandalised gasp. “But you _hate _Chardonnay. Universally and without question.”

Sherlock shakes his head in resignation. “I know. It was startling and deeply upsetting and forced me to re-think my entire perception of reality. But I did take note of the name so maybe you can pick some up at the shops for the party tomorrow?”

John grins and scrinches his nails against Sherlock’s scalp, eliciting something akin to a _purr_ from the man settled at his feet. “Of course, love. Anything you want. It _is_ your special day, after all.”

He ducks to avoid the handful of suds Sherlock flicks back at him over his shoulder.

**************

The next morning is predictably slow and lazy. They wake early but neither rises, content to simply lounge about in the quiet, enjoying a peaceful (blissfully child-free) start to the day.

“Do you think Aaron knows?” John’s propped up against the headboard, muscles relaxed, gazing dazedly off into the distance, the dopamine from the previous night’s indulgences still fresh in his veins.

Sherlock fluffs the pillow beneath his cheek, pulling the sheets tighter around him. He peers up at John with a perplexed expression. “Knows… what?”

John clears his throat, painfully aware of the blush rising in his cheeks. “That we… you know… talk about him. Like that. Like last night.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow in exasperation. “You mean, does he know that after I go out with him to a friendly platonic dinner in Vauxhall, you and I use it as an excuse to engage in some kinky fantasy role-play and pretend that he’s fucked me senseless so that when I come home you have to punish me in a sado-masochistic power exchange? No, John, I don’t reckon that possibility has crossed his mind. He may be in MI-5, but he’s not _that_ good.”

John is laughing now, rolling his shoulders and languidly stretching out his arm to ruffle Sherlock’s hair. “Not _that._ Specifically. But… do you think he suspects anything since that night we went dancing on his birthday?”

Sherlock shrugs as best he can in his current position. “Maybe. I’m not sure. We don’t really talk about it, and I’m sure as hell not going to tell him; his ego’s inflated enough as-is without knowing he’s the crux of one of our go-to erotic games.”

John buries his face in his hands. “God. And we have to see him face-to-face at the party today. So awkward.”

“Why would it be awkward?” Sherlock swings his legs off the side of the bed and rises to stand, wincing slightly as he admires his bruises in the bright morning light.

John has to fight the urge to roll his eyes; sometimes he envies Sherlock’s total disregard for social norms and obliviousness to culturally-imposed notions of shame. “Because it’s weird to imagine people you know without their clothes on.” He moves to stand himself and grimaces, his muscles clearly feeling the fallout from the previous night.

Sherlock pauses to consider what John’s said, wheels clearly turning in his head. “No, it’s not. Statistically, it’s not. Outside of my own personal experience, I’ve read enough about the average individual’s proclivities and attractions to know that_ most _people have sexual fantasies about other people they know.”

John throws up his hands in faux-exasperation. “Oh my _God, _you’re such a mad berk. Never mind, forget I mentioned it...” He makes his way towards the bathroom, but Sherlock is hot on his heels.

“What? _What?” _ Sherlock follows him into the bathroom, and John knows well enough by now that Sherlock won’t simply let it drop without a good excuse, so he’s forced to snog him for a good half hour in between breaks rubbing arnica cream on his bruises until the topic of conversation is summarily forgotten.

*****

The party is a success. Mrs. H brings Rosie upstairs in a frilly party dress which she excitedly models for the both of them, which makes John’s eyes mist over (God, when had she gotten so _big?)_ and even Sherlock pretends to appreciate. Molly arrives next, followed by Greg and the Stamfords and Danny and Jenny and Sherlock’s parents and even _Harry _drops in, much to John’s surprise. She’s kind and sober and brings a stuffed animal for Rosie and a wrapped present for Sherlock and John, which she urges them to open _in private_ with a wink and a smile. By the time Aaron arrives, John’s so consumed with hosting duties that he doesn’t have_ time_ to even register his own embarrassment; there are drinks to be poured and cake to be served and, at last, toasts to be given.

Greg overflatters them and credits them for his own meteoric success, a claim which Sherlock resoundingly refuses to let John refute. Molly tells the story of the first time she met Sherlock, the details of which are so gruesome that Sherlock’s mother is looking a bit green about the gills by the time she’s done talking (John notes that both Molly and Sherlock have similar penchants for their inability to read a room). Mike Stamford tells an embarrassing story about some of John’s antics from their rugby days. Danny says some rather lovely things about John as a leader and an inspiration for veterans, which makes John worry he may be about to cry until Jenny steps in and tells a humourous anecdote about the time she and Sherlock took the kids to the museum and somehow nearly lost all three simultaneously. Sherlock’s parents give John much more credit than he feels he deserves in the events that turned Sherlock’s life around, and he has to swallow hard to choke out a _thanks_ by the time they’re raised their glasses. Harry takes a _pass_ on the public speaking, but Aaron is all too happy to take over and gush about how much_ fun_ he has with the two of them, especially that time they all _went out dancing,_ and John nearly chokes on a mouthful of cake.

And then it’s his turn to speak, and he finds himself suddenly tongue-tied as silence settles and all eyes turn to him.

“Um. Well, first, I wanted to thank you all for coming to celebrate with us today. As you know, this wasn’t meant to be a big… thing. We just figured we were going to sign some paperwork and get on with our lives.

“But apparently somewhere along the way Sherlock and I made the incredibly audacious mistake of making _friends._ Friends who, as it turns out, care a great deal about this _thing_ that we’re doing, and what it means to us. Friends who, over the years, have helped us through our many ups and downs. Who have given advice and support when we needed it most. Who have guided us through the challenges that come with being… with being who we are, the way that we are, and figuring out how to make that work together.

“So I guess what I mean to say is… thank you. Thank you all for withstanding our many quirks and faults, thank you for your patience, and thank you for commitment. Not just your commitment to us as individuals, but for your commitment to us as… as a couple. As a team. As a family. It… it means a great deal to the both of us.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause before, much to John’s surprise, Sherlock pipes up from beside him.

“And I would like… like to… well... I’d like to thank you all as well. Also. In addition. So. Yes. What…. What John’s said. That’s for. That’s for me, too.” He blinks nervously at the amused faces peering back at him. “And that’s the end of the speech.”

There’s a wave of kind-hearted laughter, then glasses are raised, and Sherlock’s lips find his, and John wonders to himself how they ever brought this fantasy to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, sorry for the slight bait-and-switch on this one; I had a couple of false starts with this prompt before coming to terms with the fact that I didn’t _want_ Sherlock to actually hook up with Aaron. I love the idea of Sherlock and John engaging in a bit of elaborate role-play about the possibility, but at the end of the day, the dynamics of their relationship as I’ve written it in this series don’t seem cut out for polyamory (or poly encounters). That said, I do adore the thought of them toying with this dynamic mentally for the purposes of bringing out John’s possessiveness, and enjoying his subsequent reaction.
> 
> And as a side note, this was all written with Taylor Swift’s “Lover” on repeat, should you find yourself in need of a soundtrack.
> 
> Leave prompts and suggestions! I’m starting a new case-based fic (been a while since we’ve had one), but I always love any and all prompts for both plot and sexytimes!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my fuel. Leave 'em.


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